


For Those Who Love

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is injured at a protest, and Enjolras comes to terms with his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Those Who Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate expanded/adapted version of a one-shot I previously [wrote](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841398/chapters/1740790), so if you recognize anything in this, that's probably why.
> 
> Title is from a Henry Van Dyke quote: “Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.”
> 
> I own nothing, as per always.

Enjolras burst into Combeferre’s apartment, savage grin on his face. He had just managed to get away from the riot that their latest protest had turned into, though he had a black eye blooming over one eye and a split lip that had dribbled blood down his chin, with dried spots on his shirt. It had been a success – as much of a success as they had hoped. Riot aside, the people were angry, were fighting back, and for the moment, that was victory enough.

Still, the riot had gotten a bit out of hand, and when the police had started cracking down on the crowd, Enjolras had given the signal for Les Amis to scatter. Their set rendezvous point was Combeferre’s apartment, and Enjolras was one of the first to arrive.

Joly was already there, and he made a tsk-ing noise when he saw Enjolras’s face. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing at the kitchen chair, going to wet a washcloth.

Enjolras couldn’t stop grinning, even as Joly dabbed at his split lip. “Who’s already here?” he asked.

“Bossuet and Courfeyrac were first. Courf’s helping Bossuet home – he twisted his ankle on the way over.” Joly pursed his lips slightly and rolled his eyes – it would be Bossuet’s luck to get injured running away from a riot, rather than the riot itself. “Jehan and Feuilly arrived next. We’re still waiting on Bahorel, Combeferre and Grantaire.”

As if on cue, the door banged open and Bahorel and Combeferre stumbled in, both red-faced from running. Combeferre’s eyes locked on Enjolras’s, and Enjolras was startled by what he saw there. All Combeferre said, in a grim voice, was a single name. “Grantaire.”

Enjolras stood instantly, brushing Joly’s hands away. “What happened?”

Combeferre glanced at Bahorel, who supplied, “He got knocked over by someone fleeing the scene, and when we tried to go back to get him, he had been surrounded by the police.”

In a soft voice, Combeferre added, “They were calling the paramedics. It didn’t look good, Enjolras. There was a lot of blood.”

“I have to get to the hospital,” said Enjolras automatically. “I have to make sure—” He broke off, the words ‘that Grantaire’s ok, that Grantaire’s  _alive_ ’ hanging in the air.

Combeferre exchanged a worried glance with Joly. “Is that a good idea…?” Joly started, hand fluttering nervously as if torn between pulling Enjolras back into the chair and letting him go.

When Combeferre looked back at Enjolras, whose eyes had hardened, jaw clenched, something in his expression equal parts fierce and desperate, he nodded his head just once, though he still looked worried. Without another word, Enjolras brushed past Combeferre and Bahorel, heading straight to the hospital, to the side of the man that frustrated and challenged him on more levels than any other person he had ever encountered, the man whose smirk was always on just this side of mocking, but who had a softness in his eyes that Enjolras longed to know more about. The man who represented everything Enjolras was fighting against, and simultaneously everything he was fighting for.

The man who very well may be the love of Enjolras’s life.

It had happened so suddenly, all at once, the rush of feelings he had never expected, and yet it also seemed so simple, like the pieces of his life just sliding into place. They had known each other for years now, Grantaire always being the cynic, loudmouthed in the back corner, cracking jokes and mocking everything Enjolras said. Their relationship had never seemed to go beyond outright antagonism.

And even when they weren’t fighting, Enjolras was always taken aback by the self-loathing and deprecation that Grantaire felt. Grantaire was always the butt of his own jokes, always the one he mocked the most, and Enjolras was constantly torn between wanting to agree to him and wanting to argue with the way Grantaire viewed himself.

Either way, there was a camaraderie that grew from constant disagreements, the kind that stemmed from finding yourself getting not only used to the other’s irritating attitude, but looking forward to finding new ways to counter it. And then, not even a week ago, at a party at Courfeyrac’s, they had kissed.

Just one kiss, and so tentative at that, but in that moment, Enjolras knew. He knew that this was a seminal moment, the kind of thing neither could go back from. He had known as solidly and concretely as he had known anything in his life.

But he hadn’t told Grantaire.

He had debated with himself, wanting to tell him, wanting to move forward together into whatever this was, whatever it could be, but had been held back by reality. Whatever could happen between them would be complicated and messy and Enjolras didn’t know if he could afford that at the moment, with their protests picking up steam, with more people joining the cause. He couldn’t afford that kind of a distraction.

He was so very, very wrong.

Because what he couldn’t afford was this panicked ache in his chest, the kind that felt like his heart might explode from beating so hard, from racing in fear and worry and downright dread. And in that moment, he wished most fervently that he had told him, had told him everything, because what if that had been his only chance?

That thought haunted him all the way to the hospital, and when he arrived, he was greeted with surprising news, both good and bad. Grantaire was alive – but unconscious. He would need more tests to determine if any damage done was lasting, and the doctor specifically warned Enjolras not to celebrate yet.

But he also learned that at some point, Grantaire had made Enjolras his emergency contact, the sole one among their group of friends authorized to make medical decisions for him, authorized to be briefed on his condition.

And that in and of itself gave Enjolras a glimmer of hope.

When he went into Grantaire’s hospital room, though, the glimmer vanished. Grantaire’s face was swollen and red, the beginnings of bruises blooming across his normally pale features. One arm was broken, his left arm – Enjolras mentally gave thanks that it hadn’t been his right, that Grantaire would still be able to paint – as well as some ribs. The worst was the white bandage wrapped around Grantaire’s head, hiding the soft, black curls that Enjolras had initially hated but now found himself rather fond of.

Grantaire didn’t look like Grantaire. Grantaire looked like he had one foot in death’s door, and Enjolras felt winded, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He sank into the hard plastic chair next to Grantaire’s bed, automatically reaching out to grab Grantaire’s hand, to run his thumb over cold fingers. “Hey,” he said softly, voice unexpectedly hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey. I, uh, I don’t know if you can…I mean, the doctors said you were unconscious and I don’t think you can hear me, I don’t…I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know if I  _want_  you to be able to hear me. But…”

Trailing off, his sharp eyes searched Grantaire’s features for any flicker of recognition, of awakening, and when he didn’t see any, he sighed. “There’s so much I want to tell you. So much I should have told you before…And if I don’t tell you know, well, who knows when my next chance will be?”

He paused and took a deep breath. “I know that you…that you have feelings for me. And what I want to tell you is…I have feelings for you, too. Strong feelings. And when we kissed…That was one of the best nights of my life. And I don’t regret that, Grantaire.”

He swallowed and looked down. “What I do regret is not telling you sooner. But if… _when_  you wake up, I will tell you again. So wake up for me, ok? Wake up for me.”

He waited for a moment as if expecting Grantaire to answer, then stood and left, closing the hospital room door behind him.

* * *

 

Grantaire was out for over a day, and Les Amis took turns waiting in the hospital for news. Except for Enjolras, who refused to go home, despite both Joly and Combeferre trying to convince him that he needed sleep. “I get plenty of sleep,” Enjolras told them in a rough, scratchy voice.

“Sleeping in a chair hardly counts,” Joly sighed, exasperated, and was about to say more, but the doctor had stepped out of the hallway and was calling Enjolras’s name.

Enjolras practically bolted over to her, asking breathlessly, “How is he?”

The doctor smiled at him, briefly. “He’s fine. As fine as can be expected, anyway. There appears to be no brain damage from the injury. He’s awake, and alert, and even answered all our questions about what year it is.” She paused, her smile widening. “His answer for who the current president is was interesting. He said something like, ‘It doesn’t matter since all the government does is fuck us anyway.’ I imagine that’s familiar to you?”

Laughing the first genuine laugh in days, Enjolras nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like Grantaire all right. Can we see him?”

Her eyes flickered around at the number of Les Amis listening intently to her every word. “Visitors are normally limited to four,” she said slowly, “but as long as you stay quiet and do not disrupt the patient, well, I saw nothing.”

Courfeyrac let out an excited laugh and pulled Jehan to his feet. Enjolras thanked the doctor as he brushed past, eager to get to Grantaire’s room.

They all spilled into Grantaire’s room at once, beaming at him with identical, eager smiles. “Grantaire!” Jehan said loudly, crossing to his bed and pulling him into a careful hug, as best as he could despite Grantaire’s injuries.

“Hey Jehan,” Grantaire said quietly, though he smiled slightly at him, and then past him at everyone else. “Hey, guys.”

His eyes seemed to search out everyone individually, favoring them with their own, individual smiles of gratitude. When his eyes reached Enjolras, though, he barely paused, though his grin faltered slightly, and he quickly looked away.

Everyone quickly settled into calm, almost soothing chatter. Everyone except for Enjolras, who hovered in the back, uncomfortable.

Grantaire still refused to meet his eyes, refused to say anything to him, and Enjolras, who had confessed his love just a few days previously, even if Grantaire hadn’t been awake to hear it, didn’t understand what was going on.

Once or twice, Combeferre shot him a confused look, but Enjolras just shook his head. Clearly something was going on with Grantaire, and Enjolras wasn’t about to jeopardize his recovery by bringing it up. Not here; not now.

As if everyone else noticed what was going on, they all ignored Enjolras as well, which Enjolras was strangely grateful for, not wanting to draw attention to whatever was going on with Grantaire, not wanting to be awkwardly drawn into a conversation where he clearly wasn’t welcome.

When the nurse came in and kicked them out, Grantaire said goodbye to everyone but Enjolras.

* * *

 

Enjolras did not return to visit Grantaire in the hospital, as much as he desperately wanted to. Whatever Grantaire was going through, he didn’t want to add to it with his own issues.

Combeferre argued with him over it, but Enjolras shrugged him off. Grantaire needed time to heal. Enjolras needed time to not make a fool of himself when next he saw him.

Still, once Grantaire was released from the hospital, Enjolras was tempted every day to go to Grantaire’s, to talk to him, to work out whatever it was that was broken between them. He resisted, but only just, sometimes rearranging his route home so that he walked by Grantaire’s apartment.

And he only lingered outside for a minute or two. Ish.

But then he couldn’t take it anymore, and one night after a Les Amis meeting (Grantaire hadn’t come since getting out of the hospital, which was fine, he hadn’t expected him to; the fact that Grantaire had not once asked about Enjolras did nothing to ignite this fire within him, not at all), Enjolras made his way to Grantaire’s apartment, knocking briskly on the door.

When Grantaire opened it, he paled. “You,” he said, almost breathlessly, taking a step back from the doorway. “What are…what are you doing here?”

“May I come in?” Enjolras asked, as politely as he could, though his eyebrows drew together at Grantaire’s reaction. He took a step forward, and Grantaire took several steps back, eyes wide. “Grantaire, what’s going on?”

Grantaire just shook his head, looking almost panicked. “I just…I don’t understand why you’re here. I thought, after the hospital…”

Enjolras frowned. “I know. I wanted to talk to you about that. I don’t know what you think is going on here, but…” Grantaire was trembling, and Enjolras bit off his words, concern coloring his tone. “Grantaire, what’s wrong?

Grantaire had retreated all the way into the kitchen as if trying to keep as much space between him and Enjolras as possible. “Look,” he said in a shaky voice, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you want, but I really,  _really_  want you to just leave me alone.”

Enjolras stared at him. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

Grantaire shrugged helplessly and took another step back from him. “I don’t know if you’re a hallucination or some kind of a demon or angel or some shit — trust me, I don’t put anything past a face as pretty as yours — but I don’t _know_  you, I don’t want you here, I don’t want you to do…whatever it is you want to do to me.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras could barely get the word out, he was shaking so hard. “Grantaire, it’s  _me_. Don’t you recognize me? I’m Enjolras, I’m…”  _Your lover, your want-to-be-boyfriend, your partner, since you’re the only one who can ever match me, and the one who cares about you more than anything else in this world, in spite of everything_ … “…your friend. Don’t you remember who I am?”

Shaking his head, Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest. “If you think someone like you would be friends with someone like me, you’re crazier than I am, and I’m the one hallucinating.”

Enjolras took a step forward and Grantaire instantly took two back, shaking his head almost violently. “Grantaire,” Enjolras pleaded, feeling tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. “Grantaire, please.”

Grantaire just shook his head even harder, then stopped, looking suddenly dazed. “I’m—” he started, reaching out for the counter for support. He missed, and collapsed to the ground.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras rushed to his side, feeling frantically for a pulse. “Grantaire!”

* * *

 

Enjolras sat in the hospital waiting room, phone clutched in his hands, head bowed. He felt Combeferre’s hand touch his shoulder, the familiar, gentle touch, and blinked up at him. “Hey,” Combeferre said softly, sitting down next to him. “What did the doctors say?”

“He had a bleed on his brain,” Enjolras said hollowly. “They didn’t catch it in the initial scans because it was so small. But it grew. And it’s what…what stopped him from recognizing me. He’s in surgery now. They’re not…there’s no guarantee that he’s going to be fine.”

Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’s hand, holding it tightly. “He will be,” he said, almost fiercely.

Enjolras just shook his head. “You don’t know that,” he said, in the same hollow tone, though there was an edge of desperation to it. “You  _can’t_  know that.”

“I can.” Combeferre’s voice was calm and confident, and Enjolras turned to look at him, questioning even in silence. “I can believe it, because you need to believe it. And if you do, it  _will_  happen. Because your beliefs and your convictions are strong enough that they will come true.”

Though Enjolras shook his head again, his grip on Combeferre’s hand tightened, and they sat together in silence, awaiting news.

* * *

 

The steady  _beep…beep…beep_  of the heart monitor was lulling Enjolras to sleep, no matter how he struggled to keep his eyes open, hand gripping Grantaire’s tightly.

He was alive, and that was the important thing, but Enjolras still refused to leave, afraid that this time, Grantaire would open his eyes and still not know who Enjolras was. There were many things that Enjolras could face; this was not one of them.

He stroked Grantaire’s hand, reminded of the last time he had sat in this very spot, stroking Grantaire’s hand. “ _I have feelings for you_ ”, he had told Grantaire, the words true but somehow lacking. Now he scooted his chair closer to the bed, holding Grantaire’s hand between both of his, his voice soft, almost contemplative, as he said the words that he perhaps should have told Grantaire in the first place. “For a long time I thought I hated you. I hated how you drank so much, how you were so bitter and cynical, how you were a waste of space and good for nothing. I hated that you didn’t seem to want to make anything of your life, that you were content with the hand life dealt you. And I thought I hated you most of all for the fact that I knew none of those things were true, that I knew you could be more than that, be better than that.

“But then I got to know you, really know you, beyond just our back-and-forth arguments, and I realized it was more than that. Because what I hated most of all was the fact that you truly believe that you can’t be more than that, that you aren’t better than that, that you aren’t worth more than this life you’ve made for yourself.”

He broke off, feeling choked up, and said quietly, “I would do anything in my power to show you just how much you are worth, just how much you could be. But I know that’s not enough. That could never be enough. You can’t measure your worth by what I see in you. You have to measure your worth in what you see in yourself. It’s a hard-learned lesson that I had to learn for myself a long time ago. Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”

This time he had to stop talking from the sudden, sickening realization that he may never be able to tell Grantaire about it, and his grip on Grantaire’s hand was almost painfully tight. Letting out a shuddering breath, he released Grantaire’s hand, gripping the railing of the hospital bed instead, his knuckles white.

When he had managed to control his breathing somewhat, ignoring the tears that had somehow traced their way down his cheeks – because he wasn’t crying, goddamnit, not here, not now – he said, in a voice almost as broken as his heart felt, “If I could tell you what I really want to, I would tell you that I love you, and I would mean it, and everything that came with it. But I…God, this sounds terrible and corny and part of me is really glad you’re not awake to hear any of this, but you have to be willing to try to love yourself, Taire. And that is what I want for you, more than anything else in the world. I want you to wake up so that you can see the world become a little bit better everyday, so that you can feel a little less alone, so that you can know that all of our friends really do care. And so that maybe, one day, something or someone can break through the walls that you’ve put up. And maybe you’ll believe me when I say that I love you. And maybe you’ll be a little less broken.

“I look at you and I see everything that you could be. I just wish you could see what I see.”

Enjolras sat back, awkwardly, having run out of things to say for the most part, and he looked down at Grantaire’s swollen, broken features, and his heart twisted, wondering if this was how Grantaire saw himself. Hesitantly, as unsure as he had ever been, Enjolras leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. Then he cleared his throat and said, voice thick with tears, “I do love you. And there’s so much I want for you. But most of all, Taire, I want you to wake up and to be fine. So if you can just…do that for me, please.”

He waited for a long moment, then slumped in his chair, closing his eyes, letting the steady beeping wash over him. He was just drifting off to sleep when he felt his hand being squeezed and heard a hoarse whisper. “Enjolras…”


End file.
